


Revival

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia will bring Allison back.  Even if it means going to Peter Hale.  Even if the darkness consumes her.  Even if he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revival

“Tell me how to bring her back.”  Peter doesn’t look up from the couch.

“Is the body even cold yet?” he asks, tossing the word _body_ over his shoulder like crumpled paper.  He can feel Lydia seething.

“Tell me,” Lydia hisses, “how to bring her back.”  Peter turns the page of his book.  “You son of a bitch.”

“How did you get in here?” Peter casually asks, “I’m certain I left the door locked.”  He’s not surprised, not in the slightest.  Like a lock could keep out Lydia Martin.  Like 100 locks could.

“Two seconds,” Lydia says.  Peter snaps his book shut, lets the sound of it hang in the hair.

“Until what?” Peter asks.  He finally allows himself to look at her; she looks exactly as he would expect.  Messy and undone yet still more fearsome than even death.  Her eyes are red rimmed.  He knows she refuses to cry in front of him, on principle.  That doesn’t mean he can’t tell when she has been crying, of course.  He was  there for Jackson.  He knows what she looks like heartbroken.  This would be it.

“Until I run you through,” Lydia says, “I’m sure your body’s worth something.  And if you won’t tell me anything, I’m assuming it’s because you know I don’t need you alive.”

“That’s dark magic you’re talking about,” he says, rising from his seat.  She’s still standing in front of the door, nails digging into her palms.  She’s drawn blood.  He can smell it.

“Don’t talk down to me,” Lydia says, “I’ll cut your throat open.”  He allows himself a chuckle.  It’s melodramatic and she remains unflinching, but it relieves some of the tightness in his chest.

 

 

“You’re awfully brave,” he says, getting closer, “coming her without your hunter to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” Lydia says.  He cocks his head.  One step.  Another.  She takes a step forward.  To prove her point.

“Since when?” he asks, “You seemed so unsure the last time.”  There is no gap between them.  He’s inches away from her.  He dares to put a finger under her chin, tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

“What would Allison think?” Peter says, “Knowing her precious Lydia came all this way to meet me?”  Lydia does something surprising, then: she smirks.  Even with tear stained cheeks, Lydia manages to look like she has the advantage.  Peter knows her well enough to think that she just might.

“You need me,” Lydia says, “and you know you need me.”  She hasn’t moved his hand.

“I have Malia’s name,” Peter says, “what else could I want from you?”  Lydia clicks her tongue.  Now, her hand encircles his wrist.  Not to pull away.  To show him that she is dominant.

“What happens the next time, Peter?” she says, “You always want something.  And you always come to me for it.”  Her hand feels like a rosebush.  She’s digging those nails into his wrist.  Those nails that still have her blood on the sharp tips.

“You’re a cocky one, aren’t you?” he replies.  “So sure of herself.”

“You’ve needed me since you bit me on that lacrosse field,” Lydia snaps, without skipping a beat.  “As far as I’m concerned, Peter, you owe me quite a lot.”  He would marvel at how sturdy she can be, even in her extreme grief.  Would be, if she wasn’t so absolutely terrifying.

 

“It only works on Alphas,” Peter tells her.  He doesn’t like this.  He doesn’t like Lydia laying cards on the table while he pretends to play pick up.  He moves his hand from her chin to her cheek.  She doesn’t shudder.  She covers his hand with hers.

“Desperate,” Lydia notes, nuzzling his hand.  Not in affection.  In defiance. Always so in charge.  “Predicable.  You still haven’t given me a single reason to keep you alive.”

“Killing me won’t bring her back,” Peter says.

“Says you,” Lydia replies, “but I have no evidence to support that statement.”

“It only works on Alphas,” he repeats, “not on human girls.”

“You’re lying,” Lydia says.  She shrugs off his hand.  She places hers in the center of his chest.  She digs her claws in without hesitation.  Marking.  “You’re a liar by nature.  Where’d you learn your resurrection trick, Peter?”  He grabs her wrists.  Pulls her hands back.  Her eyes are consumed with darkness.  She’s coming unhinged.  He finds it breathtaking.

“It’s not a trick you need to know,” Peter tells her.  “You’re not made for dark magic.”  Finally, she frowns.  He knows what to say.  He knows how to tempt.  He just needs a strategy.

“I’m plenty dark,” Lydia says, insists, “you made sure of that.”

“You won’t be able to blame me forever,” he says, and knows that it is a lie.  Her grin comes back.  Predatory.  Like he is prey.  Like he is her prey, and always has been.

“I own your soul, Peter Hale,” she says, “and if you don’t help me get Allison back, I’ll take it from you.”

“You don’t own me,” he tells her, “You forget who bit who.”  He notices that her teeth are bared right back at him, like she’d take a chunk out of him here and now.

 

“You’re going to help me,” Lydia says.  She wriggles against his wrists and he lets her go.  Her hands are back on his chest, sliding up.  Grabbing his neck.  Grabbing hard.

“You need me,” she says, and he realizes he’s being teased in some sick sense, “and you know why.  I know why.  Shall I tell everyone else why?”

“I can only point you in the direction I know best,” he tells her.  He does not mean to crumble before her.  He doesn’t even count it as falling.  He counts it as bowing.  As surviving against the tidal wave that is Lydia Martin and her terrible, dark power.

“You’re not free,” Lydia tells him, “until Allison is breathing again.  Even then.  I own you,” she repeats.  “You made a mistake, didn’t you.  All those nights ago?”  Peter doesn’t move her hands, which are pressing hard against his veins.  Against his pulse.  She squeezes once, the drops her arms.  She smoothes her hair.  She doesn’t wipe her eyes.  Her eyes, dark and wild.  She’s going to go mad.  He’s not going to stop her.

“Shall we start?” she asks.  He can feel her grief.  Taste it.  There’s something else there.  He’ll drag it out, watch her fall into inky darkness and then pull her out.  He needs Lydia Martin, this is true.  Lydia Martin needs Allison Argent.  And when she loses the fight-well, Peter will count that as a victory.

 

After all; Allison’s gone.  And Lydia’s got no hunter to protect her.  None at all.


End file.
